


The Sword's King

by SheWhoProtects



Category: Original Work
Genre: Excalibur, F/M, For Want of a Nail, M/M, Multi, Possession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 18:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17945120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheWhoProtects/pseuds/SheWhoProtects
Summary: What if Excalibur was the true brains behind the operation? Follow the adventure of a silly sword, a charming meat puppet, and their charming rotating cast of secondary characters.





	1. Forceful eviction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [My RP friends who let this joke go so far](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=My+RP+friends+who+let+this+joke+go+so+far).



> I apologize for the frequent edits. I will try to write more on this but until then I guess this will have to do.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically a prolong and origin.

How does one decide when they are alive? When they first think, or perhaps when they first gain a body? With enough time anything can become introspective including a silly sword. During the moments of silence I remember when the little boy who saw more than his mind could handle first visited me. He who sat in the sand of an almost miniature overgrown cove for hours to think while watching the waves crash along the shore. With each pass of his pacing I felt as if he grew a little more, with every time he regaled to an unseen audience that would eventually consist of the sea, the sky, and lastly a silly sword. The child spoke of each day and those who filled the daylight for him, commenting on humorous and brainless events. Of family who were kind until the other eyes we no longer looking in his direction. Those who claim to be friends yet filled a closer role and tormentors who opposed any comfort he might find.

When The tellings gradually transformed from banter in the marketplace to the service of a new king, the tales became much more compelling. When he spoke of the future as if it was already set in place with each action marching along the paths cleared ahead. Every choice perfectly in time to the beat of destiny enthralled me to follow each prediction. Emboldened with curiosity about the world he resided in caused me to wordlessly command the young Seer to continue until intent had electrified the air. Sparks dancing in anticipation of the next tale. Each call seemed to travel further than the last, a gradual whisper that became a lonely thought and then a desperate cry.

In the days sunlight infused and dissipated from my watery prison in steady cycles. With an unwavering stone I was thrust through towered over crashing waves of salty water that would rust my blade, and sand that would trap me in any escape. Clouds above traveled with their gloomy skies and bitter spitting storms in a continual depression as if they wished to aid me in an escape. When the glamour of serving a king faded the Seer tried daily to articulate how his king was both a great ruler and a jealous man. With duality and division that can writers and performers dream of yet could confuse with how effortlessly he would flicker between them.

In the Seer’s testimony, the king was once a glorious leader. One who had lead armies into victorious battles and enforced the laws of his kingdom without hesitation. He was an inspiration, an icon that rightfully earned respect from those under him long ago. Yet nothing remained except an envious man who leers at another lands queen despite her rejection. The disgraced king slowly descended into madness by obsessing what little he would never possess. He neglected what was required of him; impulsive greed that had become his only focus. Which was especially unhelpful for those who were required to surround him.

Lastly the Seer proclaimed his king "an utter disgrace"’ ranting and raving throughout repetitive tangents without resolve in view. Each full of descriptions on how the king had fallen along with the horrendous fates his actions would bring for the Seer. The former boy could do nothing except gaze out into a cove, caterwaul into the distance to powerlessly chide and criticize a man who was absent from the whole affair. Left waiting in an abandoned cove for fate to take its hold on him in a vicious grip. The former boy’s voice faded into the waves as accounts were repeated in hope of a solution to stop turmoil from spreading beyond the king’s castle and court until nothing but a ragged whisper remained.

Once the Seer, no longer an adolescent faded into the distance that night a pair of new figures took his place in the sand. The first was seemingly translucent under the stars and left damp footprints in her wake, the second with firey hair burning the color of a torch billowing in the wind. They spoke in a way that sounded like the ringing of bells I would hear at a foreign merchants camp in one of my many travels yet to come. The conversation formed a conflicting melody of call and response, unlike the Seer's solitary words. A mercurial figure stepped into the salty water, feet indistinguishable from what splashed around my stone pedestal. The one with hair that bled from the sunrise observed her companion without a word from the sand.

With the other’s eyes upon her, a quill dripped with glimmering ink was raised into the air. The ink filled with constellations burned away the surface of sturdy rock where it landed as if it was made of ice. Time slowed while the glistering ink was used to inscribe my blade. Each careful stroke burned along the ridge of my fuller as if once again within the fires of a forge. The world around me flashed into false daylight, by which no shadows were cast upon the sand.

Water from the cove turned a crystalline aquamarine while it defied the rules of reality when it took flight. In the illusion of sunlight, the water sparkled as if molten sea-glass. A figure of living water stood before me, her braids fused the water where they met. “This shall be a blade fit for a king” proclaimed a voice that harshly crashed over the silence resembling the surrounding waves. Lightning struck down from the clear sky, my hilt buzzed within the stone as if it absorbed the energy. After it faded, my cove was abandoned once again. Both the figures and the false sunlight had gone without a trace just as suddenly as they had appeared. Each following night passed, blurring into the next until another visitor arrived. While the stars never seemed to shift it remained desolate without the Seer chattering away until the sun rose. Before a familiar set of footsteps tapped upon the uneven stones, the chains of my entrapment suffocated me under their ever-growing weight.

At first there was nothing more than a faint sound of impacts in the distance that could have been just another horse taking a road nearby. Then they kept growing in volume unlike the sounds that often filled the distance. I assumed it was a new wanderer discovering the hideaway for the first time or some unlucky fellow who had gotten lost. This continued when the strides first entered the cave there was only a torch and cloak bathed in its light. When it traveled closer the former boy returned after all of this time was revealed. He had been worn away by the sands of time, his once dark hair now swirling with white.

A single gesture to commanded the servant who stood behind him. The Seer’s companion loomed closer atop the sand and into the crashing waves. The chipping of a chisel and mallet carried rang out repeatedly almost deafening compared to former silence. With every hefted strike the servant destroyed a little more of my anchor. Under the dim light and a watchful eye concealed from my vision I felt the stone give way at an agonizing pace. Steady impacts forced my pedestal to fracture. The unceremonious plunge into the saltwater shocked and stunned me throughout the awkward movement that brought me onto the beach. When finished a violent scraping filled the air when suddenly dragged upon the stones.


	2. Movin' right along

Traveling was a chaotic, shambling ordeal. What began by clumsily placing my stone into the wagon filled with bags and bundles. The amount of places that were outside of my cove was mesmerizing to watch with the birds, trees, animals, paths and so much more! Soon enough it would be ripped away from me by the indifferent servant who piled the contents of the wagon preventing sight from entering or leaving my confines. While it was a way for them to protect me from prying eyes and curious minds, it felt cruel to have everything snatched away once again

Wood and metal of the contraption seemed like they would buckle under the stress. The inventory weighed down the entire ride slowing it down while the horses would struggle to pull the momentous burden that slowly faded with each meal on the road. A quietly hummed tune that seemed out of place was started by the Seer. Over hours the melody evolved from low and slow to something that didn't seem to transfer well to a single voice with sudden screeches and shifts. After all what has been forgotten and what is yet to come were available for his pleasure. These quick, energetic melodies fill the seemingly endless silence that enveloped after any idea of conversation died.

Pace along the road determined the time with constant modification of addition and subtraction. To announce the morning small birds called to their surroundings followed by the heat of the sun warmed the compartment during the day. Each of these assisted my rough guess of a timeframe for the days unlike the easily guessed nights. Before they came to a halt the servant would stop speaking and give a sound akin to snorting; perhaps he was asleep. It is required when in a human form after all.

Once he would be alone in consciousness, the Seer would speak into the distance as if returned to the cove under the moonlight. Solitary words once again mingling with the crisp night air, and only me as an audience. Startling jolts along the uneven roads interspaced the thoughts to keep a steady rhythm to the tangent. While people along the road were rare they were never more than another set of feet upon the road or a horse. Never was a word spoken that to acknowledge them as if something unsightly. There were huffs of disappointment and scorn for children who looked their way. One mother plainly stated "that man serves the fickle madness of magic". I could feel impacts within the cart of spoiled fruit smashing against the sides and their hostile companion of a much more dangerous nature. The alleged holy and superstitious folk harassed anyone who had even coincidentally crossed a faes path. Perhaps it was avoidance of what could never truly be understood, yet children of the Celts are almost more fickle than the faeries of their fears.


End file.
